the man like an angry bull.
With a string of raging curses, the robber was knocked off his feet. He tumbled over the chain-link guardrail, his screams diminishing in the shadows of the junkyards below. I grabbed the hem of Roman’s safari jacket and pulled with all my might to keep him from following the man over the side.
Panting, the two of us moved back into the car and collapsed on the orange seats. Then we stared speechlessly out the open subway door, watching for long minutes until our train was clear of the rusting graveyard.
TWENTY
MIDNIGHTcame and went, and the Blend had long since closed its doors to paying customers. But lights still blazed behind the coffee bar and the cozy, caramelized aroma of freshly pulled espressos was still going strong.
Roman Brio balanced on a tall stool, his heavy legs curled under him. Beside him, my laptop was open and connected to the Internet. I stood behind the counter, watching the food writer mainline his third espresso.
“I’ll need another one,” he said, dabbing his lips. Roman set the napkin on the blueberry marble beside the demitasse. I noticed his hand tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of too much caffeine or the aftershock of tonight’s events. Either way, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.
“Maybe you’d like a cappuccino instead,” I suggested. “I have one almost ready to go.”
“No, thanks, Clare. I haven’t lapped warm milk since my nanny force-fed me the stuff in the nursery. Make it a doppio, please. Rapidamente.”
I shrugged and went back to work at the machine. Twenty-five seconds later, the beautiful caramel-colored crema had oozed into the cream-colored cup, and I heard a knock on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette through the beveled-glass window. I handed Roman his freshly pulled shot, stepped around the counter, and unlocked the front door.
“Hi, Mike.”
“Hi, Clare.”
Quinn stared down at me, blew out air. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, but it was pretty scary. I could really use a—” Mike pulled me against his chest. I closed my eyes and held on, soaking up his strength. He stroked my hair for a quiet minute, then broke our embrace and held me at arm’s length to look me over.
“Relax. Nothing’s damaged. Not even bruised. You know I can take care of myself.”
Mike didn’t agree or disagree. What he said was, “What the hell were you doing in Flushing?”
I didn’t care for his tone. “I was investigating the threat against Breanne. Just like you thought I should.”
He folded his arms. “And you were attacked and nearly robbed?”
“Not nearly. I was robbed. I lost my brand-new purse. And we have another I word to add to your list, by the way.”
“Sorry? Another what?”
“You remember that little list of attributes you look for in a detective? Well you can add incredulous to it, because that’s your expression right now. You’re surprised, and do you know why, Lieutenant? Because you never believed there was any threat to Breanne, did you?”
“Slow down, Clare!” Mike unfolded his arms and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re tired and upset, and it’s true, I am surprised—you’re right about that—but only that you were ever in any physical danger. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”
We moved to the counter. I made us a couple of lattes. The rote routine calmed my nerves (it always had), then I sat down beside Mike on a barstool and told him the whole story, starting with Neville Perry’s feud with Breanne and ending with the incident aboard the Number 7 line. Roman provided a few details here and there, but he wasn’t his usual loquacious self. When I mentioned that we’d both seen the robber’s face, Mike directed his next question to Roman.
“Did the man seem familiar to you?”
Roman shook his head.
“Someone you might have seen at the office, maybe?” Mike pressed. “A delivery guy? Someone from the mail room? The local deli? Or someone from your neighborhood? Someone you met in a bar? A club? Think.”
“No, no, no, and no, Detective. But I’m sure I could identify that rough beast if I saw him again. He had the face of a stone-cold criminal.”
“I’ll set you up at a terminal tomorrow,” Mike said. “But you might end up looking at mug shots all day. The files on armed robbers are extensive.”
“These were more than armed robbers,” I insisted. “These guys targeted us, Mike. They knew